Fifty Shades of Holmes Brothers
by somanyhands
Summary: A series of 50 short fics about the changing relationship and dynamics between the Holmes brothers, from Sherlock's birth through to adulthood. No slash but there will be some brother love and tenderness as well as an amount of hatred and bitterness too. Contains mention of drug use. Not one fic per year, just 50 short glimpses, in chronological order. NOW COMPLETE
1. New Brother

Mycroft was a plump seven years old when Mummy brought baby Sherlock home from the hospital.

The scrawny newborn with its mop of dark curls screamed incessantly for what seemed like hours on end, day and night.

"Will it ever shut up, Mummy?" Mycroft asked, wrinkling his nose up at the disruptive bundle of noise.

"Mycroft!" Mummy chastised, "Babies cry. It's what they do. It's the only way they know how to communicate."

The seven-year-old leaned over the crib and studied his little brother. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with big doe eyes and quietened.

"There, see," Mummy said, noting the change in Sherlock's behaviour, "he obviously loves his big brother."

Mycroft frowned. How did this new baby even know that he was his brother? Mycroft doubted that he did really, but he couldn't help being affected by that little bundle of Holmes.

He leaned in closer to his little brother and whispered. "I will look out for you, Sherlock."


	2. First Bees

Sherlock sits in the middle of the lounge, toys surrounding him on all sides. He looks from one to the other as if trying to decide which to play with. After several long minutes of toddler contemplation, he crawls over to Mycroft who is sitting on the sofa.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks his little brother. "Can't decide what to play with?"

The toddler pulls himself up onto shaky legs and leans closer to his big brother. He peers over at the book Mycroft is reading, and Mycroft turns it to face him.

"See here, Sherlock," the elder boy says, pointing to a picture of a beehive, "these are bees and this is their house. It's called a beehive."

The younger boy babbles something that may or may not have been the word "bee", and Mycroft smiles.

"When you're a little bit older, I'll take you to see the real bees in the garden. Would you like that, Sherlock?"

The little boy giggles and drops back away from Mycroft's knees.

Returning to his toys, he starts stacking wooden blocks.


	3. New Book

"Mummy, where is Sherlock?" Mycroft runs in from school and dumps his satchel on the table, hastily rifling through it, looking for something. By the time he finds what he is looking for, he has the table covered with books and pens.

"Mycroft!" Mummy snaps angrily, rubbing her hand across her face. She hasn't been sleeping well. Sherlock is teething again and cries almost constantly during the night. "Tidy those books away at once!"

"Sorry, Mummy." He mumbles, eyes down turned as he piles his books and other school supplies back into the bag, leaving one book out and tucking it under his arm.

He deduces from Mummy's mood that Sherlock is napping, and he takes his satchel and the book up to his bedroom. Dropping his bag onto his bed, he heads back into the hall and glances down towards Sherlock's room.

Slowly and quietly, he tiptoes his way across the soft carpet and creeps into his little brother's bedroom. Sherlock is sleeping in his crib. He looks so big in there now. At nearly 18 months old, he is really too long for the baby crib but Mummy prefers him in there. "So I know where he is" she says.

Mycroft thinks that Sherlock will soon be in a big boy bed like his brother, and it makes his chest swell with pride to think of Sherlock as a 'big boy'.

He sits himself down on the nursery chair and, clutching the book to his chest, he closes his eyes and waits.

When Sherlock wakes, he will read it to him.


	4. Treasure Island

"My! My! Read it again, My!"

The little boy bounced on his big brother's lap, hands clapping and excited. Mycroft laughed. Treasure Island and the the tales of Long John Silver had been the 2-year-old's favourite since Mycroft had brought the book home from school 6 months ago.

Mycroft read the book to him morning and night, and Sherlock often demanded and begged for more during the days when Mycroft was home.

"OK, OK, Sherlock." he replied, the small boy stilling for a moment in anticipation. "But first," Mycroft continued, " we must go down for lunch or Nanny Peggy will be cross."

Mycroft stood, carefully allowing the toddler to slide off his lap and onto the floor, where his brother took his hand.

"If you're a very good boy at lunch," Mycroft whispered to Sherlock, leaning down towards his ear hidden under the mass of dark curls, "I have a new book to show you too."

Mycroft winked at the little boy, and Sherlock squealed excitedly.

He loved spending time with his brother, and he especially loved it when Mycroft read to him.


	5. Treehouse

"Can we do it, Mummy?" the ten-year-old begged, looking up at his mother with pleading eyes, "Please? Sherlock will love it."

Violet Holmes looked down at her eldest son, fondly smiling at him and crouching down to bring herself to his eye level and take his hand in hers.

"Father has said yes, Mycroft." she answered softly, using her other hand to stroke his auburn hair away from his face. A couple of stray strands stuck to his forehead from his bath. She re-secured his robe around him and stood again, leading him towards his bedroom.

"Now shush or your brother will hear you, and it won't be a surprise for him then, will it?"

Mycroft zipped his lips playfully and trundled back into his bedroom to get dressed. It was Sherlock's third birthday in a few weeks, and Mycroft had suggested a treehouse in one of the larger trees in the grounds around their family home.

He and his little brother could sit in it and play for hours without disturbing anybody like they did when they played in the house.

Mycroft smiled to himself. Sherlock would love it.


	6. Pirate Treehouse

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft shouts from the treehouse entrance, briefly lifting the eye patch of his pirate costume to see if he could see his little brother yet.

"My? My?" The three-year-old runs towards the trees, scanning for his brother amongst the greenery and trunks.

"Where are you, My?"

Mycroft chuckles to himself and pulls the patch back down as Sherlock comes into view.

"Look up, little brother," he says, grabbing his toy pirate sword at the ready, "I'm up here in our pirate treehouse!"

Sherlock looks up and spots Mycroft, in full pirate costume, brandishing an impressive toy sword.

He approaches the bottom of the tree and claps his hands excitedly.

"Mycroft!" he squeals, lifting his leg onto the first of the 9 steps up to the treehouse and grabbing hold of the handrail.

Father had made sure that the carpenter who built the treehouse for Sherlock had made it safe for the youngster to climb. "No ladders or climbing ropes!" Mummy had said, and so Mr Carter had built a sturdy set of steps with a handrail on each side. Even little Sherlock could manage those up and down.

"Can I come and play pirates with you, My?" Sherlock asked as he reached the top step and Mycroft stood aside to let him enter the treehouse.

Mycroft smiled and pulled his eye patch off. He positioned it carefully on Sherlock's head and passed him the sword. The little boy's face beamed with joy.

"Of course you can, Sherlock."


	7. Candles

"What's that, My?" Sherlock asks, pointing to the small glass tub containing a strange-coloured substance. "It looks yellow and red and orange all at the same time. Why?"

Mycroft looks down at his little brother and turns to lift the tub off his desk. He guides Sherlock to the bed and sits alongside him.

"Well, Sherlock," he begins, carefully levering off the lid and placing it on the bedside table, "this is wax. It comes from the bees that we have in the garden."

"I thought honey came from bees." the four-year-old said, his face crinkled a little in confusion.

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle. "Oh it does." he replied, taking one of Sherlock's hands and placing the glass tub into it. "We get both honey and wax from the bees. The honey we have on toast and in sandwiches, and Mrs Beeston likes to use it when she cooks and bakes."

"I like honey." Sherlock declares, lifting the tub to his nose and inhaling deeply. "This doesn't smell like honey." he crinkles his nose again.

"We don't eat wax, Sherlock." Mycroft says, taking back the pot and lidding it again. "We can collect the wax from the hive and use that for other things instead. Do you know what we can make from wax, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, and Mycroft stood and walked over to the dresser. He picked up something that Sherlock couldn't see and approached the little boy again, his hands behind his back.

"What is it, My?" Sherlock asked, bobbing his head from side to side, trying to peek at whatever it was his brother was holding behind him. Mycroft laughed and smiled at the little boy.

"Here." he said, pressing a small unevenly-coloured candle into Sherlock's hand. "I made this candle from the wax I collected before. It took a long time to get enough wax to make it. It's for you."

Sherlock's face lit up like the sun, his eyes wide and his grin wider.

"For me?" he squealed, exploring the object with his fingers. Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock jumped up from the bed and wrapped his arms around his big brother's legs.

"Thank you, Mycroft." he said, squeezing the legs so hard he almost knocked Mycroft off-balance. "I love it."


	8. Cake

"My?" Sherlock's voice was small but curious. Mycroft turned from his homework to look at the small boy.

"Yes, Sherlock." he replied, putting down his pen and giving the five-year-old his full attention.

Sherlock sat on the chair next to his big brother and frowned at the algebra book on the table.

"My." he said again, his face serious, "Why do you eat so much cake?"

Mycroft smiled briefly at the youngster before turning his head away to hide his embarrassed face.

"Why do you ask, Sherlock?" he enquired of the boy, trying not to sound annoyed at what felt like an accusation.

"Well," Sherlock began, leaning towards his brother as if sharing a good story, "Nanny Peggy says it's because you are greedy, and cook agreed with her. When I asked Mummy, she looked sad and said she didn't know." The young boys face fell, as if mirroring the sadness he had seen in his mother's.

Mycroft sighed. He had become aware of the way cook and Nanny Peggy looked at him lately when he was eating, and it bothered him. When he had mentioned it to Mummy, she had just told him not to be ridiculous.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, testing to see if the boy was influenced by the idle gossip of house staff.

"I think you eat because you are hungry and you are growing up." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "Mummy says that I have to eat or I won't get big and strong." he continued, "but I don't like eating. It's boring."

Mycroft smiled and turned to his little brother, taking his hand and turning to head into the kitchen.

"Well, let's see if we can find something to eat that _isn't_ boring then, yes?"


	9. Cars

"Mycroft. Will you play with me?" Sherlock wandered into the kitchen carrying 3 toy cars and a backpack.

Mycroft looked at the homework on the kitchen table and sighed.

"I can't, Sherlock," he replied, frantically scribbling out the mistake he had made in his algebra before turning to face the five-year-old, "I have to finish this homework. I have an important test next week."

Sherlock's bottom lip began to wobble, and he moved closer to his brother, his eyes pleading and beginning to tear up.

"Please, Mycroft? Mummy is too tired and Nanny Peggy and Cook are too busy. I don't want to play on my own."

Sherlock face was the picture of sadness, his mouth down-turned and his eyes glazed.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was stern, he sounded like Daddy when he was getting cross, "I cannot play with you now. I have to pass this exam so I can get into Eton. It is important." Then Mycroft, at just a mere twelve years old, said something that for all his life he might regret having said to his little brother, "It is much more important than playing with you."

For a brief moment, Sherlock stood stunned. Mycroft hadn't meant that, had he? Didn't he like playing with his little brother any more? Was everything so much more important than Sherlock?

He chewed his bottom lip, trying not to cry, and turned tail, running down the hallway and up the stairs into his room.

He would play with his cars alone then.


	10. Eton

Sherlock sat on the bottom stair, his elbows on his knees and his chin cradled in his hands.

Mycroft cocked his head at the sight of his little brother.

"Don't look like that, Sherlock." he said, sitting next to the six-year-old on the bottom step and giving him a friendly elbow nudge. "I'll be back before you know it."

Sherlock let out a long sigh.

"Six weeks, Mummy said. Six weeks might as well be forever." Sherlock pouted and shrugged off his brother's touch.

The sight of Sherlock looking so upset tore at Mycroft's heart strings.

"I will miss you, brother." the elder boy said, placing his hand on the smaller boy's knee and squeezing it gently.

Sherlock stood up and moved quickly away from his brother, his face stern and frowning.

"I won't miss you." he shouted, turning to run up the stairs, tears beginning to stream down his little face, "I hate you, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked at his mother and father. Father's face showed pride, and Mummy's was soft, as if she was just a little sad.

"He doesn't mean it." Mummy said, placing her arm around Mycroft's shoulder. "We will all miss you desperately, of course."

Mycroft nodded and stared up the stairs. He hoped so.


	11. Visit

Mycroft ran in through the front door, dropping his bag at the bottom of the stairs and leaning into Mummy's tight embrace.

"There's my big boy." Mummy chuckled softly, holding her eldest son against her and relishing the familial contact. Sherlock, even at six-years-old, rarely hugged his parents. He had become a solitary child now that Mycroft was away at Etonian, and Mummy felt sad at this lack of contact with her 'baby'.

"Mummy, it's good to see you." Mycroft leant up and placed a soft kiss on his mother's cheek, "Where is Sherlock?"

Mummy sighed and cast her eyes upwards in the direction of the bedrooms.

"He rarely comes out any more, Mycroft." She said, trying to keep her voice light and her concern hidden. "He is such a solitary little boy. I don't know how he will react to your visit." Her voice trailed off. The brothers had been so close for the first few years, with Sherlock doting on his big brother and Mycroft always having the time to play with the little boy, but now she wasn't even sure if Sherlock would speak to him.

"He's in his room, Mycroft. Please try to speak to him. It breaks my heart to imagine him so lonely."

Mycroft nodded. He'd noticed Sherlock's distance even before he had actually left to go to Eton. Sherlock clearly resented the fact that his older brother was leaving him. He only hoped that his return would be welcomed.

"Thank you, Mummy." He picked up his bag again and headed up to Sherlock's bedroom. "I shall do my best."


	12. Cold Shoulder

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft knocked tentatively on the youngster's door, pushing it open a crack while still waiting for a response from his little brother.

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock replied bitterly, turning his back to the door and pulling his knees up to his chest.

Mycroft sighed and pushed the floor open a little further.

"Please, Sherlock," he said quietly, daring to enter the young boy's room despite the lack of positive acknowledgement or invitation, "I don't want you to hate me."

Sherlock's head flew round and his slitted eyes bore into Mycroft, making the elder boy feel, for a moment, as though he made the wrong decision when he entered.

"You left me, Mycroft." the eight-year-old scowled, turning his body back away from Mycroft's and burying his head in his knees, "You keep leaving me."

Mycroft couldn't be sure, but he thought that the youngster was crying, his shoulders shuddering sporadically although he himself remained silent.

The fifteen-year-old walked over to the bed and sat next to his brother, hesitantly placing a hand on his back.

Sherlock instantly shrugged it off and let out a long breath.

"Go away, Mycroft." he repeated firmly, lifting his head and pinning the elder with a glare.

Mycroft looked almost stunned as Sherlock morphed from upset eight-year-old to blank and expressionless.

All emotion drained from his face and he became tight-lipped and aloof.

"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Sherlock stood up and left the room, giving his brother only a brief backwards glance.

"I don't need you any more."


	13. Adrift

"Have you seen your brother, Mycroft?" Mummy asked, walking down the garden path to where the elder boy was sitting reading under a tree.

The sixteen-year-old rolled his eyes, only briefly looking up from his book.

"Am I my brother's keeper, Mummy?" he retorted rudely, "Sherlock has not spoken to me for several days. I am bored of trying to be nice to him now."

Mummy sighed and shook her head. How did her lovely boys become so distant from one another? Mycroft used to dote on his little brother, and Sherlock looked up to him with admiration and awe. As she turned to head back towards the house, she began to blame herself for leaving such a long period of time between having the boys. While it did not seem to matter in the early years, seven years was too much of an age gap as the boys grew older.

She slowly walked back to the house, giving Mycroft a quick backwards glance before entering the kitchen through the side door.

She didn't notice Sherlock scuttling away from the drawing room window, where he had been watching his brother in the garden.


	14. Freak

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Mrs Beeston, the housekeeper, asked the eleven-year-old as he stomped through the kitchen door.  
Sherlock dropped his bag on the table and himself into a chair with a long sigh.

"Oh, nothing." he shrugged, beginning to wish he had headed straight for his room rather than the kitchen at tea time, "Just some kids at school."

Mrs Beeston reached into the fridge and poured Sherlock a large glass of orange juice, placing it down on the table in front of him before pulling out a chair and sitting alongside.

"You shouldn't pay any attention to what they say, you know, Sherlock. Kids can be awfully cruel sometimes."

Sherlock took a long drink of juice before responding. They'd been through this before. Several times since the start of term, Mrs Beeston had found Sherlock sulking in his favourite hiding spot, behind the long curtain in the drawing room. Each time, a result of the children at school calling him names.  
The first time she had found him was 18 months ago. Sherlock had clearly been crying and Mrs Beeston had taken a while to get him to share what the problem was.

_"Am I a freak?" the ten-year-old had asked, his face streaked and flushed._  
_Mrs Beeston had gathered him in her arms and told him tales of when Mycroft was his age and the children used to tease him._  
_"And look at him now." she had continued, pride evident in her voice, "He is doing so well."_

She looked at the young boy now sitting next to her at the kitchen table and smiled fondly at how much he had grown up since then.

"I know." Sherlock replied solemnly, "it's bothering me less than it used to anyway. I just ignore them now. I don't need people like that."

Mrs Beeston smiled a bittersweet smile and hoped that someday Sherlock would find somebody to be his friend.


	15. Algebra

Sherlock slammed his pen down on the kitchen table for the third time that hour.

"Stupid algebra!" he cursed, pushing the book away and dropping his head down onto the worn, hard wood surface. "I'll never get the hang of this."

Mrs Beeston hid the smirk on her face before she turned around to the eleven-year-old. For somebody with such undeniable intelligence, the poor boy did struggle with maths.

She crossed the kitchen, wiping her hands on the dishcloth as she walked, and headed out of the room.

A few short minutes later, the kitchen door pushed open again.

"I can't do it." Sherlock mumbled into the tabletop, bringing his hands alongside his head and flattening them, palms down. He looked a sight.

Mycroft pulled out the chair next to his brother and slid the book across to take a look.

"Let me see." he said, picking up the pen and resting his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I can help you."

Sherlock raised his head, obvious surprise on his face at his brother's appearance. He had assumed, of course, that the door opening was one of the staff coming back in. The last person he had expected was his brother.

He scowled momentarily before glancing at his book again. He really did need help with this, and Mycroft was, he conceded, just the person to give it.

He sat back up straight in his chair and gave his brother a brief nod.

"It's this bit here that I don't understand," he started, pointing to the page that was giving him problems.

Mycroft shuffled his chair closer to Sherlock, enabling them both to see the book clearly, and proceeded to aid his brother with his study.

Mrs Beeston peered through the crack in the kitchen doorway and smiled.


	16. Pride

Sherlock ran into the house, waving a piece of paper in front of him.

"I did it. I did it!"

Mummy came through from the drawing room, smile broad on her face.

"Well done, Sherlock." she congratulated her son with a hug and a soft kiss on his forehead. "I knew you would."

She released him just as Father emerged from the study.

"What's all the commotion out here then?" he asked, giving Mummy a brief wink as she passed him in the hall. Sherlock calmed himself a little, remembering that polite boys don't squeal and shout.

"I did it, Father. Look."

Sherlock approached him with the paper in his hand, holding it out for his father to see.

"I passed."

His father's face beamed with pride as he read.

"Well done, son." Siger Holmes pulled Sherlock into a shoulder hug. "I always knew you would, of course."

Sherlock smiled at the obvious lie. Everybody had been concerned that Sherlock would fail his entrance exam into Eton. He had struggled for months to bring his maths up to the required standard, and there was a very real fear that it may not be good enough.

Sherlock nodded at his father and took the paper back as it was passed to him. He turned towards the stairs and ran up, taking them two at a time before hurrying along the hall and pushing open the bedroom door.

"Mycroft!" he shouted, forgetting his manners in the comfort of his brother's room, "I passed."

He crossed the room to the desk where Mycroft sat writing.

"You helped me to understand it, and I passed! We did it, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled and wrapped his brother in his arms, giving him a rare hug.

"No, Sherlock." he replied, his voice thick with emotion and overwhelmed with pride, "You did it."


	17. Suit

Sherlock's eyebrows raised as his brother descended the stairs for his first day at work.

Mycroft looked pleased as punch with himself, dressed in a well-tailored three piece pinstripe suit, swinging a new umbrella in one hand and clutching a briefcase in the other.

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip in an effort not to laugh but failed miserably.

"Sherlock!" Father reproached. "Don't be so disrespectful to your brother. When you start working with us, you will be wearing just the same."

Sherlock spun round to where his father was standing, still taking some considerable effort to prevent the giggles that threatened to get him into more trouble.

"I am not going to work with you, Father," he began, wondering, in the split second after he said it, whether he should have, "and I shall certainly never be seen dead wearing _that_!" He indicated back towards Mycroft who was now standing with his mother at the foot of the stairs. Mummy was scowling at the fourteen-year-old while fussing with Mycroft's hair.

Mycroft just gave his brother a practised look of indignation.

"Good luck with your first day at work, Mycroft!" Sherlock said, struggling to maintain his composure as he passed his brother to head back upstairs again, "You look utterly ridiculous. You will fit right in."


	18. Late Night

"Where have you been?"

Sherlock jumped when Mycroft appeared in front of him as the fifteen-year-old sneaked in the side kitchen door.

"Nowhere." the teenager sullenly responded, deliberately bumping his brother with his shoulder as he passed him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned to follow his brother. It was 3am and Mummy had gone to bed hours ago. Father, fortunately for Sherlock, was away on business and so only Mycroft was aware of Sherlock's late night.

The elder Holmes pursued his brother across the ground floor and up the stairs, scowling when Sherlock made little effort to be quiet.

"You'll wake Mummy." Mycroft growled, low and loud, at the petulant teen.

Sherlock shot him a glare as he carefully peeled off his clothing and headed to the bathroom.

"What the hell?" Mycroft gasped as he saw his brother's body littered with fresh bruises. His face transformed from controlled anger and frustration to obvious concern. "What happened, Sherlock?" he placed a brotherly hand on the teen's shoulder and took a closer look at the forming marks on his back and sides.

Sherlock turned to face his brother, chewing his bottom lip as he shrugged off Mycroft's touch with a wince.

"It's nothing." he mumbled, crossing the room quickly to retrieve his robe and tying it around himself as he sat down on his bed. "I guess I was just too slow this time."

Mycroft sat alongside his brother with a long sigh.

"Anything I can do?" he asked, giving Sherlock a sideways glance so as not to make him feel like he was being judged.

The teen shook his head.

"No, thank you, Mycroft." he replied, his voice low and quiet. "Just being here is enough."


	19. Suspicion

Sherlock's grimace as he sat down at the dinner table did not escape Mycroft's notice. He raised an eyebrow at his brother questioningly. Sherlock had been out again last night and, while Mycroft hadn't witnessed him coming in, he knew his brother had arrived home late; after 2am. Sherlock ignored Mycroft's silent enquiry, keeping his head down as he continued to pick at his dinner.

Mummy chatted to Mrs Beeston as she cleared the dishes away, and Mycroft followed his brother into the drawing room.

"Not now, Mycroft." Sherlock warned, seeing his brother's approach and knowing exactly what he was going to say.

Mycroft sighed and poured them both a glass of after-dinner Port, passing the smaller one to his seventeen-year-old brother and taking the opposite seat to him next to the fireplace.

"I'm worried about you, Sherlock." he said, taking a long drink. "What kind of people are you hanging about with that they do _this_ to you?" Mycroft waved his hands in the direction of Sherlock, indicating his full knowledge of his younger brother's new injuries.

"I don't _need_ your concern, Mycroft." Sherlock spat, draining his glass and slamming it indelicately down on the table.

The younger man started to stand and Mycroft stood to approach his brother. As Mycroft looked into Sherlock's bloodshot eyes, he noticed his dilated pupils and noted a slight tremble in his hands.

He hesitated a moment before beginning to speak.

"Are you...?"

"What I do and who I do it with is none of your concern, brother." Sherlock interrupted, turning on his heels and heading out of the room. "I will thank you to keep your nose _out_ of my business."


	20. Help

Sunday dinner had been quiet; subdued. Mycroft always made a point of calling in on his family on a Sunday, to catch up with the family news and see his not-so-little-any-more eighteen-year-old brother.

Sherlock seemed distracted and distant. Mycroft took the opportunity to watch him while he didn't appear to be noticing. He looked tired. Mycroft glanced across to Mummy who was still chatting animatedly with their father, and he gave thanks that the two of them didn't really seem to have noticed Sherlock's mood. As a teenager, Mycroft supposed that Sherlock was often moody and distant, but something didn't seem quite right.

After dinner, Sherlock all but ran to his bedroom, skipping evening drinks altogether. Mummy shot a concerned look up the stairs and turned to Mycroft who gave her a nod.

"I'll speak to him." he offered, unsure if his brother would really want him to but knowing that Mummy did.

"Oh, would you, dear?" Mummy replied, wringing her hands together anxiously. "I've been so worried about him. Maybe he's just being a teenager, Mycroft, but you were never like this. He's so... distant and moody all the time, and he comes home so very late."

Mycroft stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do, Mummy."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Maybe he will listen to you."

Mycroft doubted it but headed up the stairs anyway.

He took a calming breath and knocked quietly on his brother's door. It wouldn't do to go in all guns blazing. He knew Sherlock wouldn't respond well to that at all.

Without waiting for a response, he slowly pushed open the bedroom door. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, dressed in his robe, facing the wall. He ignored Mycroft as he entered and sat down on the end of the bed.

"Mummy is worried about you, Sherlock." Mycroft said calmly, "We all are." He placed a hand on his brother's side, noting a grimace as he did so.

"Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly. There was more to the question, of course. Both Sherlock and Mycroft knew it. Sherlock rolled steadily on to his back and looked up at his brother. Mycroft could see that his teenage brother had actually been crying and, as his robe slipped open slightly, Mycroft could see bruises. Fresh bruises. His breath caught in his throat, chest constricting as he saw the true state his brother was in.

"Sometimes..." Sherlock almost whispered, his voice low and gravelly, "...Sometimes, I don't have enough money to pay them. They like to use me as a punch bag for fun... for payment."

Mycroft closed his eyes, momentarily blocking out the sights and sounds but finding that, even in the darkness, his mind's eye saw worse visions. He swallowed thickly, re-opening them again and looking down at his brother.

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip nervously, almost as if he was trying to stop the words that would follow.

"Help me, Mycroft. Please."


	21. Retreat

Mycroft watched his brother as he slept on the sofa. Sherlock had been living with him for the past 5 months, in his attempt to get clean from the drugs and sort his life out.

Mycroft had reassured Mummy that Sherlock just wanted a bit of space; to feel like a grown up; to be independent. Of course, in reality, he had given himself over to his elder brother's care in an effort to sort out his life. Mycroft had no idea how he had managed to do so well in school, but he knew that, in Sherlock's current condition, he couldn't hope to be able to cope at university after the gap year that the two brothers had agreed that he needed to take.

Mycroft still had to leave his brother during the daytimes so he could work, and he could only hope that this didn't damage his recovery.

Sherlock shifted restlessly and Mycroft froze, listening to the mumbled words of his sleeping brother.

"No, please." he whined, curling in on himself before straightening out again violently and gasping loudly. His eyes shot open, his gaze desperately searching for something to lock on to. Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock even saw him as he approached and knelt alongside the sofa, and it was several minutes before Sherlock seemed to come back to himself and turn his head towards the concerned face of his big brother.

Mycroft ran a hand through Sherlock's damn, sweaty curls.

"It'll be OK, Sherlock." he reassured, hoping with all his might that he wasn't making false promises, "You'll be OK."

Sherlock nodded weakly.

He hoped so. They both did.


	22. Bust

Mycroft had just settled at his office desk when his personal mobile phone rang with an 'Unknown Number'. He debated not answering it. The number was reserved for family only and an unknown number was out of the norm, but he felt compelled not to ignore it anyway.

"Mycroft Holmes." he announced, picking up his pen and flipping over to a blank page in his notebook, just in case.

Someone at the other end of the line cleared their throat nervously, and Mycroft rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

"Mr Holmes." a male voice began, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Brother of Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

Mycroft sat straight up again, paying full attention at the mention of his brother's name.

"Correct." he responded, deliberately outwardly calm whilst feeling anything but on the inside.

"Detective Gregory Lestrade." the voice continued, "We have your brother here at the station. We found him..." Lestrade paused, trying to decide how to phrase the next piece of information, "There was a drugs bust. We found him high in the drug den. He seems OK now. We've had a doctor check him over, but he asked that we call you. You can come and collect him, Mr Holmes... if you want to, that is." Lestrade wasn't sure how the Holmes family dynamics worked. Maybe his brother wouldn't want anything to do with the nineteen-year-old in this state.

Mycroft sighed. He had failed his brother again. He knew it was only a matter of time before his brother got himself into trouble. Mycroft had tried helping him to come off the drugs, but the process was more than he alone could handle. Perhaps they needed to take a different approach.

"I shall be there in 30 minutes, Detective."


	23. Rehab

"Your brother isn't with you?" Mummy peered over Mycroft's shoulder as her eldest son entered the house, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. Mycroft hoped he had hidden the grimace before he replied.

"No, Mummy. Sherlock is busy for a few weeks. He is catching up on some studies before he starts at University. He has been working very hard." Mycroft shot his eyes heavenward as he blatantly lied to his mother.

"Oh, my boy will do so well." Mummy beamed proudly, following her son into the drawing room for drinks. "Is he excited about resuming his education?"

Mycroft poured them both a large measure of Scotch, taking advantage of the time he was facing away from his mother to close his eyes and compose himself for a moment.

"I think so, Mummy." he said, maintaining the deception. In reality, Mycroft wasn't even sure if Sherlock would be able to start the university term on time. He had checked his little brother into rehab in the hope of getting him clean before he needed to leave Mycroft's London home in three months time, but Mycroft was not at all convinced. He feared that Sherlock would be unable, or perhaps unwilling, to get clean in such a short period, but if they were to keep his drug problem away from their parents, they could not risk admitting him longer and delaying the start of his studies.

Mycroft passed a glass to his mother and took a long drink of his own.

He just prayed that his dear little brother had a strong enough will to succeed.


	24. Uni

"I'll be fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked warily at his little brother who, even at 20-years-old, still managed to brew up the same feelings of worry and anxiety as Mycroft felt when Sherlock was so small.

"You'll call me if you need anything, Sherlock?" he asked, knowing with almost certainty that he wouldn't but hoping with all his heart that he would. "Anything at all." Mycroft repeated.

He thought his brother was ignoring him as Sherlock continued to pack his things into his case, but a moment later, there was a long, broken sigh and Sherlock turned around to face his brother.

"I'll be fine." he said quietly, not in his usual impetuous tone but small... and uncertain, "Thank you."

Mycroft gave a small nod and excused himself. "Mummy will be here soon. I'll just go downstairs and wait for her." He slipped from his brother's room and took a minute to compose himself.

The last three months had been hard. Sherlock had battled with demons, nurses, doctors and, ultimately, himself during his time in rehab. He had come out of the other side clean, yet Mycroft was all too well aware that it would take considerable effort on his brother's part to stay that way.

Now, Mycroft had to let Sherlock go. He had to start his new life and studies at university. Mycroft had done all he could for his little brother and, as he stood outside the building and waited for Mummy to arrive, he just hoped that it had been enough.


	25. Struggle

He heard the whispers, of course.

Even if he hadn't been a genius with the Holmes' powers of deduction, he would have still known.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the dissection he was working on, ignoring the group of 3 who were sitting at the table behind him and watching his every move.

"He's a junkie, you know?" one of them whispered. "I heard that he was in rehab before he came here."

"Once a junkie, always a junkie, I reckon." another replied.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly for a moment, blocking out the sights and sounds around him. In his 18 months at university, he had so far successfully resisted all temptation but it hadn't been easy. He'd had to deliberately separate himself from his peers to avoid any situations where drugs might be freely available, and it had made him even more unpopular.

"Tell me about your friends, Sherlock." Mummy would say, her eyes bright and excited at Sherlock's new start in life. The children at school had been cruel, and university afforded him a second chance at making friends with his peers.

"They're all boring." Sherlock responded with a shrug. He couldn't explain, of course. He couldn't tell Mummy that he had no friends because he had distanced himself from everybody else. She didn't know about the drugs.

Even Mycroft kept on at him about how he needed to form alliances with his peers. He worried constantly and he couldn't imagine how Sherlock was coping alone.

His own brother didn't understand.

They would never understand how alone protected him.


	26. Friend

"C'mon, Sherlock." Victor shouted over his shoulder as the two of them walked quickly through the halls. "We'll miss the start."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, thankful that his condescending reaction couldn't be seen. He had been paired up with Victor Trevor for an assignment and, while Sherlock had tried very hard to argue against working with somebody else, he had been pleased that at least Victor seemed to have half a brain. Mycroft had said that the Trevor family were well-known and well-respected and had encouraged Sherlock to at least try to develop some sort of friendship with the man.

Sherlock hadn't enjoyed having somebody else in his personal space though, and he certainly wasn't happy with having to attend this stupid meeting.

"I'm sure it's not important." Sherlock mumbled, catching up with Victor quicker than he expected as the latter stopped suddenly in front of him.

"What?" Victor's face was serious, and Sherlock wondered, for a moment, whether he might have allowed himself to be unintentionally heard.

"No, nothing." Sherlock replied hastily. "I was just checking the time."

Victor nodded.

"It starts in five minutes." he responded, nodding his head towards the meeting room door that they had approached. "We are just in time."

He pushed open the door and entered, holding it open for Sherlock to follow.

"After this is over," Victor continued, guiding them both to seats at the back of the room, "I have something planned for us which I think you'll enjoy rather more."


	27. Victor

"I need some. Get me some."

Sherlock paced frantically from one end of the room to the other, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to calm himself down. Victor closed the door behind him as he entered and crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock, stopping his advance.

"Sherlock." he said quietly, placing his flattened palm on the man's chest and holding him still. "Your brother is visiting tomorrow, remember?"

Sherlock shrugged off Victor's touch and spun himself round, marching to the window and staring out at the campus grounds.

"My _brother_, Victor," he began, his voice bitter, "has no business interfering in _my_ business."

He turned back around and walked back to Victor, his eyes boring into the dark eyes of his friend.

"Get me some... Please. I'm going crazy here."

Victor smiled and nodded. He knew how much Sherlock struggled with the noise of everyday life. The endless droning of inferior minds driving him almost completely out of his own.

"Fine. Fine." he reassured, placing a calming hand on Sherlock's arm and grabbing his attention from wherever it had wandered off to this time. "Give me an hour or so, OK?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh and flung himself down onto the sofa.

"Fine."


	28. Brother

Mycroft flipped up the lid of the laptop and watched the soft glow come to life in the dim light of the room. It was late, and everybody else had gone home, but Mycroft had one more thing to do. Something to check.

He logged in to the software and paused for a moment before proceeding. Should he do this? Was he betraying his brother's trust by checking up on him?

Mycroft shook his head to clear his thoughts and typed in the name.

_Victor Trevor_

He waited for the name to process and watched as the Trevor family history began to fill his screen.

Mycroft hummed approvingly as he read through the details. The Trevors seemed like a well-respected family. They were wealthy, active in their community and well-liked. Victor himself had excelled at school and seemed like a perfectly normal young man.

Perhaps he would be good for Sherlock. Somebody to ground him; to reign him in if needed.

Mycroft let his mind wander to his little brother. The past two years, since Sherlock started at university, had been incredibly difficult for both brothers. Sherlock had found himself in alien territory, surrounded by his peers with whom he felt he had nothing in common, and Mycroft had felt helpless, unable to either keep an eye on or guide his brother.

He rubbed his hands across his face and sat back in his office chair with a sigh.

He had to start letting Sherlock look after his own life.


	29. Relapse

"Victor sent me."

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the dingy backstreet terrace, his coat collar turned up against the cold and the wind, offering him some degree of disguise and anonymity.

"In." The guy on the door uttered the single word with a look of contempt. "He's back there." he tipped his head towards a grey doorway before returning back to his position by the front door, leaving Sherlock to enter the room alone.

Suddenly, he felt anxious and very conspicuous. He hadn't done this... buying his own coke, since... before. Before university. Before Mycroft... he pushed away thoughts of his brother and knocked confidently on the door as he turned the handle.

"Victor sent me." he repeated to the two men sitting in the corner whose eyes turned to him as he entered. They were sitting either side of an old wooden table, a deck of card between them.

The taller of the men nodded. Victor was a good customer. He had been selling to Victor for several years now. Victor's family came from money, and they were the best clients to have: rich ones. He knew Victor was currently away though, and he'd been warned to expect a few of the 'more affluent' clients to approach him directly. Sherlock was the first who had actually come around though, and he recognised him instantly from Victor's description.

"Money?" he frowned, eyeing Sherlock's demeanour as the young Holmes scanned the room, taking in details. It made him uncomfortable to be under such scrutiny.

"Money up front or no gear."

Sherlock nodded and removed a roll of twenties from his coat pocket. The second man stood up and took the money, passing it back to the first before heading through to another room and retrieving a packet. He thrust the packet into Sherlock's hand, his eyes darting between Sherlock and the man who was clearly his boss.

"This is the good stuff. Victor said you liked the good stuff. Plenty more where that came from." he continued, taking his seat at the table again and picking up his poker hand, "if you got the money for it, that is."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock felt compelled to answer anyway.

"Of course." he scoffed, running his fingers over the packet of white power before stuffing it into his inside coat pocket and turning to leave.

"Of course."


	30. Overdose

"Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft paused as he opened his office door to a face he knew. A face he recognised from the past and one he had hoped never to see again.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft responded calmly, his voice quiet with anticipation. He felt his heart begin to race in his chest and knew that his face was probably doing a very thorough job of betraying his feelings, however hard he tried to hide them.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr Holmes." Greg continued, entering the office at Mycroft's silent invitation.

"Mycroft, please." Mycroft corrected, indicating towards a vacant chair as he crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured two.

"You might want to sit down yourself," Greg replied, taking up the offer of the seat, "Mycroft."

Greg willingly took the drink offered to him, taking a long gulp before continuing and thankful he hadn't driven himself to the elder Holmes' office.

"Mycroft, It's Sherlock."

At the mention of his brother's name, Mycroft took a long drink himself but remained standing in front of his desk. He nodded to the detective inspector. He had expected this. Even though he didn't yet know what "this" was.

Greg noted Mycroft's silence and chose to continue.

"We raided a crack house last night. I had no idea, obviously. I mean, I never expected to find him there. I thought he'd be... Well, anyway, Sherlock was there. He was in a mess. Really..." Greg paused, watching Mycroft's face but not seeing much in that controlled expression. "He was really bad, Mycroft. The paramedics took him to the hospital."

"Gregory...?" Mycroft didn't manage more before he sank into his chair with his head in his hands.

"Mycroft." Greg spoke again, standing and rounding the desk to where Mycroft was sitting. "Mycroft. He is OK. He is stable now. He'll be OK."

Greg hesitated a moment before placing a hand on the elder man's shoulder.

"But I think it's time we got him some long-term help."

* * *

**_Just a fair warning, I'm away at Slayer ItaCon in Florence next week and won't be back home til 7th August._**  
**_I shall probably not get chance to write while I'm away so there may be a week's hiatus._**  
**_BUT I promise I'll be back!_**

**_Just so y'all know._**

**_Normal service should resume when I get home._**  
**_:-)_**


	31. Rehab Revisited

"Get. Me. Out of here, Mycroft."

Mycroft winced as he cautiously entered Sherlock's room. He hadn't anticipated a warm welcome from his brother, but he really didn't know what to expect.

Sherlock had been in rehab for 10 months, and his progress had been slow. Unwilling to admit that he had a problem controlling his drug use, Sherlock had been a difficult patient, and the staff had needed considerable 'encouragement' from Mycroft to continue treating him.

"Sherlock." Mycroft began, his voice already showing his exasperation even in that one word, "If you do not allow the doctors to treat you effectively, you will be here much longer than is really necessary." He moved to the corner of the room and sat himself down on the one chair that wasn't piled high with books. He had overheard the nurses complaining about the state of Sherlock's room, and now he realised why.

"Brother," Sherlock spat, throwing himself down on the bed in a fit of pique, "I do not need your, or anyone else's, help. I am fine. I am in complete control."

He began banging his fist on the wall alongside his bed, like a petulant child.

"There is NOTHING to do here. I. Am. So. Bored!" Each word was emphasied with a heel-kick on the scuffed wallpaper.

"Really, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Must you do that? You have to let these people help you."

Sherlock's motions stopped and he let out a long sigh before swinging his legs back around into a sitting position.

"This is YOUR fault." he said to his brother, fixing him pointedly with a stare.

"I will never forgive you for this."


	32. Island

"He's going to leave you, you know."

The nurse stopped mid-way through sticking the small, round plaster on the spot where she'd drawn blood and looked at Sherlock.

"Sorry?" Her voice was calm and steady, she had been warned not to let the man get to her, but over the past 4 months, she had learned that it was much easier said than done.

"Oh, don't be." Sherlock replied, as if the conversation was completely normal, "He'll leave you, but you're not happy with him anyway. That young thing on reception that you're seeing, she's the one for you."

Jess snapped herself back to reality, realising she was both staring and sitting open-mouthed at the revelation. "Don't let him get to you." The words echoed through her mind. She turned back to the plaster and finished securing it before packing the rest of her things away and turning to leave.

"That should do it, Mr Holmes." she said, her voice confident and unaffected. "Sadie will be along shortly with your new schedule of treatment." Without waiting for a response, she exited the room and left Sherlock to his own thoughts.

"Treatment." Sherlock scoffed. Stupid, boring and pointless. Aloof doctors and dumb nurses, all thinking they know what's best. "You need to do this, Mr Holmes." they say. "We can treat you." "We can help you."

_I don't NEED help_, Sherlock thought. _I'm perfectly capable of managing my drug use._

In the twelve months before he was arrested, he had perfected his dosage, obtaining just the right amount of positive effect without causing any unwanted side-effects - mostly.

The night he'd been arrested, he had been impatient. He had wanted to use right then and there, not wanting to wait until he had got himself somewhere safer; more secure. It was an error in judgement on his part. One which led to him being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now Mycroft - he cursed silently at the image of his brother - had decided that Sherlock needed help. Long-term treatment for addiction.

"I am NOT an addict."

Sherlock shouted loudly, hurling the nearest object to him - an empty coffee mug - at the wall as he did so.

Damn Mycroft. Damn his infuriating, interfering older brother and his 'ways and means'.

Sherlock clenched his fists angrily, almost snarling as his eyes darted frantically around the room. He hated Mycroft. He hated that his brother had used his influence to admit Sherlock against his will. He hated that he was being treated like a prisoner here. He hated... He just hated everything.

He would never forgive his brother for such a betrayal.

God, he needed a fix.


	33. Enough

Sherlock sat by his bedroom window for three hours, watching people pass by.

Several patients wandered past, closely observed by members of staff, and the groundskeeper nodded to him twice during his grass-cutting duties.

Sherlock himself let out a long sigh. He was bored. Bored of being a prisoner at Mycroft's will. Bored of everything.

He watched two patients, a man in his 40s and a younger woman, early 20s, walking slowly through the garden, their arms linked casually, supporting each other. They're relaxed postures and facial expressions showed that they were friends. Good friends, helping each other through the trauma and difficulties of rehab.

For a short moment, Sherlock was envious. He envied their smaller, lesser lives. How easily they connected to each other and how calm they both looked, even in the face of the pain of withdrawal and rehabilitation.

He watched them until they disappeared from view, feeling unusually uncomfortable in his own skin. Sherlock turned his eyes back to the expanse of green outside his window and let his mind wander. What was outside those crumbling walls? He only had a vague recollection of actually being admitted to the facility, and he didn't recall anything about the area around it.

Perhaps it was time to find out.


	34. Escape

"Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft answered the phone with a slightly impatient tone. He had been heading out of the office when his phone rang, and after the day he'd had, he really wasn't in the mood for more diplomatic strife.

"Mr Holmes." The voice at the other end of the phone responded considerably more calmly than Mycroft himself felt, "It's Doctor Riley, from Sunnyville Rehab Facility."

Mycroft's heart sank, and he dropped back into his oversized chair reluctantly, rubbing his hand across his face.

"What has my brother done now, Doctor?" he asked, he hoped politely enough, but he suspected his usual exasperation with his brother's antics was apparent.

"Well, sir," Doctor Riley began, his voice a little more timid in light of Mr Holmes' obvious mood, " I am afraid he attempted a kind of escape last night. Don't worry though, it was detected before he managed to get outside the facility's grounds, but you did ask that I inform you if such a situation were to arise?" Doctor Riley left the question open, feeling suddenly uncertain of whether the call to his patient's brother was really well-advised.

Mycroft let out a long sigh before answering.

"Did he cause any harm or distress to himself or any other person this time?"

The hesitation in the doctor's response was momentary but clear.

"Is my brother himself OK?" Mycroft tried a different approach, being, of course, more concerned with his brother's safety and well-being than that of the facility's employees whom he had paid more than adequately to deal with him.

"Mr Holmes is fine." The response was swift and spoken with confidence. Truth then.

"Good. Good." Mycroft nodded unseen. As long as Sherlock was OK.

"Thank you for calling, Doctor Riley."

Mycroft dropped his phone back onto the desk and dropped his head into his hands, praying that Sherlock would wake up to himself sometime soon.


	35. Turning Point

"Mr Holmes!"

The nurse's words came through teeth gritted out of pure frustration with the man.

"If you do not let us administer this, Mr Holmes," she continued, aiding the doctor to hold Sherlock's arm still to place the new cannula in his hand, "you WILL be here for the long haul. And I am sure that neither of us want that, do we?"

Jess knew she didn't. Mr Sherlock Holmes had been surely the most impossible and aggravating patient she had ever had to deal with in the 8 years she had worked at Sunnyville.

Sherlock's relaxed his arm for a brief moment, just long enough to place the needle, before he abruptly and bitterly yanked it away from their grasp.

"I assure you," he spat, his voice filled with hatred and venom, "that I have no intention of staying any longer than is absolutely necessary."

_Right_, Jess thought, wondering how many times she had heard that line or similar in recent years.

"If that is so, Mr Holmes," she sat alongside him, her voice noticeably calmer than it had been, "you really must allow us to help you."

Jess studied the young man closely, watching his downturned face and noting a sadness in his whole demeanour that she had really not been aware of before. She suddenly realised that she felt sorry for the man. He was alone. He'd had no visitors in the whole time he had been at Sunnyville, and he had an older brother, clearly with some considerable power, who had been pulling strings left, right and centre from the time Sherlock had entered the facility.

"Mr Holmes," she began, fractionally drawing his attention away from his sulk, "did I tell you how right you were about my husband... and Alyson on reception?"


	36. After

"I have arranged for you to stay with me for a while."

Mycroft nodded to the man who was carrying Sherlock's bags through his front door, indicating for him to take them straight up to his room.

"I feel you will be more comfortable here. There is no pressure, and you are free to come and go as you please."

"Sure." Sherlock let out a disbelieving snort. "So you can keep an eye on me, you mean?"

The look of disdain on his brother's face had Mycroft rolling his eyes. Sherlock never failed to rub him up the wrong way, always assuming an ulterior motive.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, hoping he could convey how he felt with the limited range of expressive emotions that he had, "you are my brother. I do care what happens to you, and I want you to be safe and well. Your rehabilitation extends beyond your stay at Sunnyville, and I feel somewhat responsible for your aftercare during this period."

"Will you be needing dinner, sir?" A well-dressed, middle-aged lady appeared at the doorway of the drawing room, looking someone apprehensive about interrupting what could have been an important conversation,

"Thank you, Mrs Walker" Mycroft responded with a smile. "I have to work this evening, but my brother will require a good hot meal."

Mrs Walker left the room with a swift nod, and Mycroft turned to Sherlock, noting that he seemed about to disagree.

"Sherlock. You will eat."

It left no room for argument. Even Sherlock knew it. He scowled at his brother and dropped down into a lounge chair with a huff.

"What am I supposed to DO here, Mycroft? There is nothing. I am already bored of the place."

Mycroft sighed and stopped walking towards the hall. He turned around to face his brother and looked at him earnestly. The look that Sherlock responded with was anything but easy.

"I shall send for your violin, Sherlock." He began, collecting his umbrella from the doorway where he had placed it on the way in. "All you have to do is get better."


	37. Moving On

"Lestrade."

Greg answered his personal mobile with a certain degree of trepidation. Few people had the number, and it rarely rang, so when it began vibrating on the kitchen table at 9.30pm in a Sunday evening, displaying 'Unknown Number', he almost didn't answer.

"Detective Inspector," the familiar voice began, wry smirk barely disguised by the distance between the men, "Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft?" Greg responded, briefly considering asking how in earth he had obtained his personal mobile number before thinking better of it. Mycroft Holmes knew everybody's everything.

"How are you? How is Sherlock?" Greg dared to ask.

"My brother, Detective Inspector, is doing very well, thank you, and he is in fact the reason for my call."

Greg cringed, unsure what exactly that meant. He hoped it didn't mean that Sherlock had got himself into some sort of trouble that needed his involvement. He was fairly sure that, if it was something Mycroft Holmes couldn't fix, he himself wouldn't be much use.

"Do not be alarmed, Gregory." Mycroft continued, making rare use of the detective inspector's first name, "Sherlock is not in any trouble and does not require your help exactly. On the contrary, in fact. I believe that my brother may be of assistance to you in your investigations."


	38. Thanks

"She flew in from Tokyo this morning and traveled by tube to..." Sherlock paused for a moment, moving gracefully around the body, tipping his head from side to side, "... Canary Wharf, where she purchased a new handbag and a pair of shoes. It is also where she met her killer. A six foot three male with a slight limp. I am sure that you will find witnesses in that area who saw the pair of them together. They would have been quite conspicuous. A small slender Japanese woman and a tall man with a limp."

Greg realised that he was staring at Sherlock, his mouth open and aghast, and he gave himself a mental shake.

"If you're just making this up, Sherlock?" He warned, turning to Donovan and giving the disbelieving woman instructions to follow up on Sherlock's leads.

"How do you even KNOW that? I don't see..."

Sherlock raised a hand to the detective inspector, cutting him off.

"You see, but you don't observe, Detective Inspector." He stated flatly. "I see everything. Details that you deem insignificant but that are actually crucial. Your simple minds are unable to process such details."

Greg let out a sharp laugh. "Watch who you're calling simple-minded, mate." he laughed, turning to usher Sherlock out of the room.

As they walked back to the car, there was a visible tension between them. Words that were unsaid; that perhaps needed saying, on both sides.

"Detect..."

"Sherlo..."

They both began together.

Greg acquiesced with a smile and nod. "Go on." he urged the younger man, knowing full well, even from what little he knew of Sherlock, that such conversations were difficult for the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock sideways glanced at Greg, almost deciding not to continue at all.

After a moment of tenuous silence, he nodded and turned to face the detective inspector.

Sherlock's demeanour was quiet, apprehensive and a little unsure.

"I am aware that it was you who found me..." Sherlock paused, in a rare moment scrambling for the words he needed, "...in that place and informed Mycroft. My brother has been there for me more than I care to admit in recent months, but there is little doubt, Detective Inspector, that it was you who initially saved my life and for that, I thank you."


	39. Moving Out

"Somebody will call by tomorrow, Sherlock, to make sure you have everything you need."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the phone clicked off. Mycroft and his interfering cronies would, no doubt, be keeping a close eye on him now. Now that he had moved out of his brother's home and into his own flat.

It wasn't anything fancy. Sherlock had chosen it partly because of its proximity to New Scotland Yard and partly because it was in an 'interesting' area.

And by 'interesting', of course, it meant an area that Mycroft absolutely hated.

It was a win-win situation all round.

Sherlock dropped his duffle bag onto the bed and lifted one of the large cases that had been delivered earlier that day. He unzipped the top and began half-heartedly pulling the contents out. As he mindlessly stuffed items of clothing into random drawers, Sherlock realised he felt tired. It wasn't often that fatigue overtook the young Holmes but leaving Mycroft's house, however much he outwardly loathed being under his brother's care, was emotionally draining. Unpacking and folding could wait for tomorrow.

He dragged the half-empty suitcase from the bed and flopped down onto the soft mattress, bouncing softly and looking around the room. The small flat was nothing special. A living area, small kitchen, single bedroom and a bathroom. It wasn't fancy (despite Mycroft having insisted on having it furnished by himself - well, by Anthea!) but it was freedom. It was his own space. A space in which he could start his new life.


	40. Being Sherlock

Mycroft groaned as he pushed open the main entrance to Sherlock's block. He loathed this neighbourhood. It was filled with normal people; mundane people with boring lives. It wasn't a neighbourhood worthy of his little brother. Sherlock deserved better. Somewhere nicer; cleaner; less... ordinary. Mycroft hated it, which of course, he knew, was why Sherlock had chosen it.

As his climbed the stairs to Sherlock's second floor flat, he became aware of the soft sound of a violin playing and instantly recognised the style as his brother's. It was a piece that Mummy had taught to Sherlock as a child. Mycroft smiled fondly and stood in the corridor for a while, listening to the rise and fall of the music and feeling the emotion with which it was played. This was Sherlock, his little brother, doing what he loved. It was a time during which he could let go. Let the emotions flow into the music.

For a short moment, Mycroft was envious of that. Sherlock had always been the more accomplished musician of the two, with Mycroft's piano skills falling far short of his brother's violin talents. Despite that, Mycroft stood silent for a moment and let himself be absorbed into Sherlock's world of music. He closed his eyes, as he knew Sherlock did when he played, and let himself be carried along with the beauty and passion of the piece.

After a few minutes more, the music came to an end, and Mycroft, remembering where he was and why he was there, stepped forwards to knock on the door. As he raised his hand, the door opened to him, and Sherlock stood with a wry smile on his face.

"Good morning, brother." the younger greeted, standing aside to allow the elder to enter. "Come to check up on me, have you?"

Sherlock's clipped tone was forced. Mycroft knew that Sherlock did not really detest his visits as much as he claimed. Mycroft cast his eyes around the flat for clues as to how his brother was doing. There was organised chaos all around. Mycroft recognised it as a good thing; something he remembered from their childhood; from before... before everything went wrong. He looked back at Sherlock with a short nod.

Sherlock was good. He was well. He was Sherlock again.


	41. Real World

"I have a case for you."

Lestrade's greeting was hesitant, despite being the bearer of good news. Sherlock noticed immediately and frowned at the detective inspector.

"Lestrade?" he questioned, leaving the actual question un-asked but evident.

Greg cleared his throat before continuing.

"There are drugs involved."

Right. Sherlock nodded solemnly. He had known it was only a matter of time before such a case came to him. He suspected that Lestrade, no doubt on his brother's interference advice, had been deliberately holding back the drug- related cases, and Sherlock himself had mixed feelings about that.

"You OK?" Greg's voice was low and filled with concern. He had approached Mycroft, when this case came across his desk, and asked him to allow him to go to Sherlock with it. Greg believed that Sherlock was ready to handle it, and Mycroft, after some careful deliberation, agreed.

If this was to be Sherlock's career, then it was time to let him back out into the real world.

Sherlock nodded slowly and smiled at the Greg.

"Lead the way."


	42. Close Shave

He couldn't shut it off.

The sight; the smell; the horror.

Faces mangled and bloody. Small, innocent faces.

Sherlock closed his eyes uselessly against the onslaught of images rushing through his head.

He groaned loudly, jumping back up from the sofa and pacing across his small living area.

"This is too much." he shouted, at nothing in particular. He needed to make it go away. Make it stop. Make it all stop. He tried and failed to delete it. It needed something else; something more... potent.

A knock on the door startled him, making him shake his head to bring himself back to reality. The knock came again, and he let out a long breath to compose himself before answering.

"I thought you might need something to eat."

Mycroft spoke with a knowing look. Knowing that Sherlock hadn't eaten during the past 4 days and knowing what he had dealt with and the horrors he was probably trying to delete.

He handed three tubs of take-away over and entered his brother's flat.

They would eat together tonight, and Mycroft would ensure that his brother was OK.


	43. Something

"Sherlock! Mycroft!"

Mummy ran to her boys, arms open and face beaming.

"It's so wonderful to have you both here."

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's grimace as their mother wrapped her arms around them and pulled them together.

It had been many months since both of the Holmes brothers had visited their parents, both preferring to keep their distance for their own reasons, but this Christmas was going to be "extra special", as Mummy kept saying.

"Ohhhhhhh, your father will be so pleased to see you." she continues, loosening her grip on the two grown men and turning to enter the drawing room.

"Come. Come."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Mycroft responded with a warning head-tip, as if to say "Humour her, brother, please."

Both men followed Mummy into the drawing room to see Father, already sitting near the crackling fire.

"It's good to see you, boys." he said. His voice calm but with an edge of something Sherlock couldn't quite place.

Mycroft shot a glance across to his younger brother. He knew. Mycroft Holmes knew. There was something wrong; something that needed to be said; something... important; life-changing.

Sherlock's face began to ask questions that his voice couldn't, and Mycroft answered with a silent "I'll tell you later."

The younger Holmes nodded.

"Father," he began, accepting one of the glasses of Scotch that Mummy was holding out in his direction, "it is good to be here."


	44. Gone

Sherlock sighed as his phone buzzed for the fifth time. He had glanced at it first time and, seeing it was his brother, ignored it.

On the fifth time of ringing however, he decided to answer: clearly the only way to get the annoying buzzing to stop.

"What?" he barked impatiently. "I was thinking."

Silence greeted him. An uncomfortable, unusual silence.

It was... disturbing.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"It's Father." Mycroft began, chewing his lip anxiously as he ran over again, in head his head, the words he had been preparing.

"He passed away this morning. Mummy was with him. The doctors had made him as comfortable as they could."

The silence returned. This time deeper; stronger; thicker; heavier than before.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft's real question was un-voiced, but the concern was evident.

After the Christmas they had spent at home, it had become obvious that their Father was dying.

He heard Sherlock clear his throat before answering.

"When do we leave?"


	45. Birthday

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock."

Mycroft entered his brother's flat with an almost-convincingly warm smile, eliciting an eye-roll and a groan from Sherlock himself.

"Really, Mycroft?" he complained as his brother handed him an eloquently-written envelope and an immaculately-wrapped box (clearly Anthea's doing, Sherlock noted).

"You know we don't do 'birthdays' any more."

The air-quotes hung in the air, mocking Mycroft's kind gesture, and he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying how that made him feel.

"I felt that you earned this." Mycroft replied, his face forced into a calm smile. He nodded towards the package that Sherlock had placed on top of a pile of papers on his desk.

"Go on. Open it."

Sherlock tutted loudly and reached across to pull the box back from the table and onto his lap.

Deliberately slowly, he pulled the ends of the bow and let the ribbon drop to the floor. He glanced momentarily at Mycroft who, confusingly, lookedrather anxious with anticipation. It made Sherlock hesitate a while before he started to pick at the silver tape that held the paper firm.

As the paper slid off Sherlock's lap, he shot another glance at Mycroft, finding that his brother actually had his eyes closed, almost in prayer.

Sherlock looked down at the box and gasped.

It was the (very expensive - he'd checked!) microscope that he had been looking at on the Internet not three days previously.

"For me?" he said timidly, letting go the fact that Mycroft had clearly had access to his browsing history, as he tried, with shaky fingers, to open the box and examine the contents.

"You deserve it, Sherlock."


	46. Grief

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mycroft?"

Sherlock barely looked up from the slide of bacteria he was examining under the microscope as his brother entered his flat without knocking.

"I see you managed to get a copy of the new key then?" he added, annoyed that, despite changing the flat's door locks, Mycroft still managed to enter at will.

Mycroft just hmm-ed quietly in reply.

"No witty retort? You must be slipping, brother." Sherlock's monologue continued as he sat back in his chair and, for the first time since he had entered, looked towards Mycroft.

Mycroft was still standing in the doorway, his umbrella hanging loosely from his fingertips and his eyes fixed firmly on Sherlock. He cleared his throat before attempting to reply, his voice hoarse and rough.

"Are you done?"

Sherlock stood and walked over to his brother, removing the umbrella from his hand and placing it against the wall. As Mycroft began to fiddle with his own hands, Sherlock stilled them with his own.

"Mummy?" he asked quietly. For once in his life not wanting an answer but knowing what was to come.

Mycroft nodded slowly.

"In her sleep." he started, pulling his hands from Sherlock's grip and crossing the room to sit in the armchair. "Mrs Hawkins found her."

Mycroft had always been very close to Mummy. Even though she had been devastated when Mycroft had revealed himself as gay on the day that Mummy had arranged for a potential wife to join them for dinner, they had reached a tentative truce between them, and he had visited her regularly after Father's death.

Sherlock, however, had remained distant, unsure of how to deal with his mother's emotions.

Looking at Mycroft right now, he felt that same uncertainty. What should he do? Did Mycroft need Sherlock to do anything?

"Just... sit." Mycroft raised his head to his brother's obvious confusion. "Just sit with me, Sherlock. Please."

And Sherlock did.

The brothers sat for nearly 2 hours in complete silence but for the sounds of two men breathing and grieving, each in their own way.


	47. Distance

"Have you seen my brother, Lestrade?" Sherlock swept into the latest crime scene, all coat tails and cheekbones, barely even greeting the Detective Inspector as he spoke.

Mycroft had been avoiding Sherlock's calls for the past 3 weeks, ever since the consulting detective had stormed into his room at the Diogenes and thrown 14 small 'covert' cameras across the table, each removed from various locations in his flat. He reckoned that Mycroft must have had almost 100% coverage of the flat from the camera angles, and the resulting argument between the two brothers had been prolonged and heated.

It had continued for a further 18 hours, by text mostly, until Sherlock had said something he probably shouldn't have said to Mycroft and the latter had not responded. At all.

That was 19 days, 17 hours ago (not that Sherlock was counting) and, while there had been no direct contact between the two men, Sherlock knew that his brother was still keeping tabs on him and his whereabouts (he really ought to hire better-trained spies to tail and watch someone like Sherlock Holmes!).

Greg took a while to process the question as Sherlock breezed past him, not even stopping to address him personally.

He had seen Mycroft. In fact, he had seen altogether too much of the man. He had been sticking his nose into every case that Sherlock had taken in the last 3 weeks, and it was driving Greg crazy.

He was under strict instructions not to tell Sherlock about it though, and as that thought ran through his head, he noticed Sherlock looking at him, his face tilted and questioning.

_Oh shit ,_ Greg thought. _He's deducing me._

"I thought as much." Sherlock finally said, returning to the body in the middle of the floor.

"Next time you see him, Detective Inspector," Sherlock began, placing deliberate emphasis on Greg's title, "Do tell him to stay OUT of my life."


	48. Flatmate

Sherlock scoured the paper one more time. There really wasn't anything suitable; nothing that caught his fancy at all. They were all dull and boring and he'd had quite enough of that, thank you very much.

He thought back to his earlier discussion with Mrs Hudson. Maybe that upstairs flat would be suitable. Except... well, the rent was a little pricey, prime area and all that. Could he afford it on his own? With only his unpaid consulting detective work?

He'd given her a "maybe" but he really wasn't sure.

He could hardly advertise for a flatmate though. He snorted at that idea.

Who on earth would want a flatmate like him?!

Even his own brother couldn't stand him.

He pushed the paper away and let out a long sigh, turning again to the microscope in the lab.

Minutes later the door swung open and Mike entered with another man. A soldier - ex soldier, with a cane (psychosomatic limp. Ex-army care really isn't what it used to be)... doctor... invalided... ahhh, probably looking for somewhere to rent.

_Interesting_, Sherlock thought.

Conversation was casual, clearly someone Mike was familiar with so not someone thrust into Sherlock's life by his controlling and interfering brother this time. Not like that vacant idiot last week.

He let a brief smile pass across his face.

"How do you feel about the violin?"


	49. John

"A doctor?"

Mycroft's eyebrows raised slightly at Anthea who was running through the key information they had gathered on Sherlock's new flatmate.

"An ex-army doctor, sir. A captain." she clarified, before passing the folder across the desk to her boss.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft sighed, waving his hand dismissively at his assistant.

"Give me 15 minutes to read through this lot and begin making the arrangements for this evening."

Anthea nodded and left, leaving Mycroft to flick through the pages of John Watson's life.

Mycroft had watched Sherlock closely in recent weeks. It had become obvious that his brother had been trying to find somewhere else to live, and this worried Mycroft greatly. He had tried pushing a few worthy candidates in his brother's direction, but Sherlock wasn't so easily fooled.

Mycroft had concerns about Sherlock's seemingly strong need to start over alone; without him.

New places, new beginnings, new flatmates.

It was all too easy, amongst so much change, to long for something else; something to grasp onto; something familiar. Mycroft only knew that it wouldn't be him.

As far as he knew, Sherlock had only met this John Watson yesterday and already they were not only moving in together but also solving crimes together. Footage of his brother at Baker Street had confirmed that there was something between the two men, and Mycroft did not like not knowing what it was.

Clearly Mycroft would need to have a little "chat" with John Hamish Watson.

* * *

_**Final chapter tomorrow, folks.**_

_**Hope y'all have enjoyed the ride!**_


	50. Brothers

"He's your brother?"

John looked between the two men, the crazy yet intriguing Sherlock Holmes and the his "arch enemy" who had now been revealed as his brother. Mycroft Holmes, "The British Government."

"You actually are concerned?" he asked Mycroft, as Sherlock turned to leave. "It actually is a childish feud?"

Mycroft grimaced at the accusation. His brother was truly the most infuriating creature that he had ever had to deal with, and now he was getting those same looks; the same tone from John Watson too.

As John walked away to catch up with Sherlock, Mycroft watched them leave together, observing the comfortable nature of their discussion.

Despite the near-disastrous events of the evening, Sherlock looked happy. Genuinely happy.

It really was rather a conundrum. John Watson appeared to be just the kind of person that Sherlock needed in his life. Somebody to ground him; to keep him on the straight and narrow; to ensure that Sherlock remained on the right side of the law and out of trouble.

However, John Watson also appeared to be something of a threat. A threat to the already tenuous link that Mycroft still had to his little brother.

Mycroft watched how Sherlock looked at John, with respect and almost admiration, and he envied that greatly.

It was many long years since he'd had that effect on Sherlock, but his little brother had, at one time, looked at him like that when they were growing up.

Now though, it was time to move on.

It was time to accept that his brother was a grown and capable man, with a new life.

Mycroft just hoped that this time he had made the right choice.

* * *

**_So there it is, folks. Hope you enjoyed this "Fifty Shades of Holmes Brothers" series._**

**_Choosing where to pitch number 50 of this series was kinda tricky, but I hope I chose a suitable point. _**  
**_Certainly, in the BBC series, it seemed fairly significant between them (for Mycroft, at least)_**

**_I'm sure there'll be a sequel series at some point :-)_**


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